


The Devil Went Down

by LizzyFranklin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Competition, Deal with a Devil, Music, Propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyFranklin/pseuds/LizzyFranklin
Summary: Every seven seven years, the devil holds a competition for his fiddle. Dwayne Milton grew up on the song, and decides to prove he's the best that's ever been.





	The Devil Went Down

Dwayne stepped into the Burning Oak Tavern and smiled at the familiar, homey smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. He raised his eyebrows at the sound of a fiddle playing. For a town of nine hundred-some, this was not your average bar act. He snorted. _Hell, any live music at all--except when I’m in town--isn’t average here._

Dwayne rapped his knuckles on the scarred bar to attract the attention of the ex-boxer behind it. “Hey, Jake, who’s the old guy you got playin’?” 

“Night, Dwayne. That’s one Mr. Alexander Black, Esquire, or so he informed me. Used to live ‘round here apparently, and came back for some kind of anniversary celebration. Can’t say as I remember him.”

Dwayne eyed the old man with an air of impartial consideration. “He’s not as good as me.” 

Jake rolled his eyes. “’Course not. You’re the best that’s ever been, as you’ve told us.”

“And so I am. Gimme a Bud.” Dwayne leaned his hip against the bar as he turned to survey the room.

“Will do.” Jake grabbed a bottle from the upright cooler, handed it to a half-attentive Dwayne, and continued, “But you gotta admit, he’s the best we’ve had here since you went touring. ‘Specially considering his age. Lookit those hands.”

Dwayne snorted. “Ain’t he the only one you’ve had here since I went touring?”

“Close, but not quite. There was Joe Hensey’s son, and those girls from Jessup.”

Dwayne grinned broadly and took a gulp of beer, then considered the old man as the music caught him again. His eyes scanned the wrinkled, leathery face, the gnarled fingers, the flannel shirt, blue jeans, and ostrich skin boots of the Cowboy Made Good, and he privately admitted that the old man was indeed good, especially given the twisted hands. 

“How old do you figure he is?” Dwayne asked.

“Man’s seventy if he’s a day,” Jake replied. “He said he’d had his fiddle nearly fifty years, and you don’t buy that kind of instrument for a kid, do you? I reckon he got it when he was in his early twenties.”

“Now I don’t know, it’s a pretty flashy instrument. A teenager’d love it.” Although mostly brown, the fiddle gleamed with hints of yellow, red, orange, green, and blue along its length. Dwayne kept blinking, trying to tell if the color was in the varnish or if the lights of the bar were playing tricks on him. A very pretty instrument it was, with a lovely, sweet, low sound, like velvet with a smell of tar and diesel beneath. Dwayne’s fingers itched to play it.

“Wanting to show him how it’s done?” Jake smiled crookedly at Dwayne.

Dwayne settled back easily. “Well now, wouldn’t you want to hear it at its best?”

Jake shook his head. “You’re the best fiddler I’ve ever heard, but why do you have to go around bragging? Why not just let people hear how good you are without forcing it in their faces?”

Dwayne answered easily. “It’s all about the propaganda, Jake. These days, you gotta sell yourself if you want to be popular.” Jake opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted.

“Dwayne! Where ya been? I ain’t seen you in ages--a couple a weeks at least.” Dwayne pushed himself away from the bar with a grin and turned to greet Heather. She slid a friendly arm around his waist and he grinned and hugged her to him, enjoying the feel of her fit, nicely rounded form.

“Honey, I been all over the place. Had concerts in Little Rock, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Fort Worth--even one in Houston! Starting to make a name for myself round about.”

“You’re gonna be famous soon,” said Heather as she leaned against him.

“’Course I am. Ain’t I the best that’s ever been?” Jake rolled his eyes as he moved away to wipe the bar down farther away. Just then the old man began to play a song Dwayne remembered from a high school dance. 

“Finish that beer up quick!” Heather exclaimed. “I wanna dance!” Dwayne laughed and chugged the beer, looking forward to a good night. 

As they were dancing, Dwayne noticed Bill come in the door. Christ, they’d been at school together, and every time Dwayne saw him, the man looked increasingly older than he should. There were the tell-tale signs: the wedding ring, the tidy collar, the look of staid sensibility--or was that exhaustion?--that came from having three kids under the age of five. A family would do that for you--tie you down, make life routine, unrelentingly predictable, until death do you joyfully part. 

As the song ended, Dwayne led Heather back to the bar. “Jake, hit me and Heather again and--hey, Bill, what’ll you have?”

The next few songs went back with a few more lagers as Dwayne slid into the familiar pattern of two-decade-old friendships. He was glad to see Bill escaping from the coil of sobriety when Mr. Alexander Black, Esquire started into a song Dwayne knew very well indeed; it was the song that had made him want to learn to play fiddle.

The devil makes a challenge with a fiddle for a prize

Every seven seven years beneath the starry skies

And every seven seven years a fool with strength of will

Journeys to the Burning Oak to try his fiddling skill

It takes a lot of bollocks, and pride that’s bound for fame

To meet the devil on that night and beat him at his game…

It was a common enough story for a ballad, one in which a fiddler meets with the devil and challenges him to a musical duel. If the man wins, he gets the devil’s fiddle; if he loses, the devil gets his soul. Unlike a similar song of that type, the recording Dwayne had fallen in love with featured both the man and the devil playing fiddles. He’d always wondered who had thought it a good idea for the devil to bring a bass guitar to a fiddling competition.

Dwayne fell into the soft crannies between the notes, nuanced so that they had the smoothest edges Dwayne had ever heard, peppered with just a little bit of spikiness to keep it lively. It was played perfectly, exactly the way Dwayne had learned it note-for-note as a teen, but the recording had failed to capture the depth of the sound.

“Well, son of a bitch.”

Bill and Heather broke off their chatter and stared at him. Bill’s slow voice responded.

“What seems to be the problem, Dwayne?”

Dwayne couldn’t rip his eyes away from the dance of the man’s fingers on the fingerboard. “Jake said his name was Alexander Black, Esquire. Alexander. Sandy. My god, that’s Sandy Black, the man who _wrote_ The Burning Oak. He’s the one who wrote that song he’s playing!” Bill and Heather stared at him blankly. “Jesus Christ, don’t you remember the CD I had as a kid, the one that set me begging my ma for a fiddle? The tune I’ve got as a ring tone on my iPhone, for Chrissakes? That’s him! That’s the man who made me want to learn fiddle. God, I’m glad he re-released that album on CD--the original was vinyl, you know.” He stared at the old man again, then looked back as he noticed his friends’ silence. “Big round thing? Came before cassette tapes, which came before CDs? Looked like Frisbees?” 

Bill waved a hand at him in irritation. “I know what a record is, you idiot. I’m just wondering why you look ready to wet your pants with excitement. You sound about like my four-year-old.” Dwayne flushed.

“Damn it, listen to him! Listen to the sounds he’s getting, the way he’s making the fiddle sing like that. That kinda sound never came through on the recording. I’m not sure I could….” He broke off, noticing Heather’s hazel gaze. “Well, of course I could play it better than that --but damn, he’s good.”

Heather glanced meaningfully at Bill, then looked back to Dwayne. “Why did you latch onto that song, anyway? I’ve never understood why there are so many songs about people beating or tricking the devil. Sure, yeah, you get a pretty instrument, or a skill, or long life or whatever, but failure seems kinda permanent.”

“Ah,” said Dwayne, “but everybody’s heard the songs, and so they know that people can _win_.” He grinned hugely, a light in his eye. Heather punched him gently.

The famous Sandy Black finished his song with a flourish, and for a moment the small town bar felt like a stadium. Sandy stepped off the tiny stage and headed to the bar amidst the cheers of a very appreciative audience, and Dwayne pushed himself forward.

“Sir I need to buy you a drink. I learned to play fiddle because of that song.”

“Did you now?” asked Sandy Black. “And how well did you learn?”

“Why, I’m…” Dwayne hesitated and ducked away from making his usual boast. “I’m the best musician in these parts, and starting to make a name for myself for a couple hundred miles round about. May I play your fiddle? I can show you,” he said, eyes gazing on the instrument covetously.

“Nope. This fiddle here can only be played by the best that’s ever been. Didn’t you listen to that song? You can only play a fiddle like this if you’ve won the right to do so.”

Dwayne laughed loudly. “So that’s the fiddle you won from the devil, is it?”

The old man grinned. “Indeed it is--I won it forty-nine years ago tonight beside the Burning Oak. That’s why I’ve come back for the anniversary.”

“Well, there I can tell you you’re full of it,” said Jake leaning over the bar with Sandy’s drink. “The Burning Oak was established just a little over forty-six years ago. It wasn’t here when you say you won your fiddle.”

“This is the Burning Oak Tavern; I won my fiddle beside the Burning Oak itself. The very one. I wrote my song about it. The original owner, Bill Gregory, was my best friend. When he opened his bar, he named it for my song. Died too young. Just forty-two, as I recall.” 

Jake raised his eyebrows, and nodded. “Had the bar about 15 years before he died, then Mike Riley took it up, and I got it from him.”

Heather looked skeptical. “So the devil, then--what’s he look like? Cloven hooves, pointy tail, the whole bit?”

“Not lately,” Sandy Black replied. “The devil wears many forms.”

“And which was he wearing when you met him?” asked Bill, shifting on his stool.

“Well, now--I saw him as a shadow only, with the Burning Oak rising up behind him. It’s a funny thing--light itself can make you blind to what’s in front of you.”

Dwayne smiled slightly at the patter of storytelling in the man’s voice. “So where’s the Burning Oak, then? I haven’t heard tell of any place named that around here.”

“Haven’t you? I would’ve thought a brawny boy like you’d be adventurous enough to’ve found it. It’s on Horn’s Peak, maybe a mile from the road, but you can’t miss it. Burned out hollow of a trunk. The leaves are always yellow and red, but they never fall off, and the tree never dies.”

Dwayne’s jaw dropped. “That’s the Burning Oak?” He noticed Heather and Bill giving him funny looks, and swallowed. “Well, so, if that’s the Burning Oak and it’s the anniversary you’ve come for, why are you here and not there?”

Sandy grinned roguishly. “I’ve had my turn. I’m waiting to find out who’s next. It’s like the song says--every forty-nine years, someone challenges the devil. Since he lost last time, the competition has to be in the same place. I want to meet my successor.”

Dwayne felt an alcohol-fueled fire ignite within him as his gaze slid back to the fiddle, but he felt the eyes of his old classmates on him and tried to hide his reaction. “Riiiight. So, why would it be every forty-nine years, then? Why not fifty?”

Sandy looked peevish. “Don’t you pay attention to lyrics? Every seven seven years and all that? It’s not just in my song--it appears in a lot of old ballads.”

“So wouldn’t that be fourteen years?” asked Heather. “That’s what I thought it was when I heard it.”

“No, fourteen years is only two seven years. Things in ballads happen every seven seven years, and that’s forty-nine. Kids these days….” Sandy took a swig of beer.

Dwayne silently thanked Heather for making a fool of herself--he’d been about to ask the same question. “Sorry about her--never was much good at math.”

Heather elbowed him in the gut. “Like hell I wasn’t. Who got you through tenth grade math with Mrs. Schroedinger?” 

Bill and Sandy exchanged knowing glances as Dwayne pacified the righteously angry Heather. As Sandy got ready to go back on stage for his second set, Dwayne glanced away from Heather, his eyes caught by the glint of the fiddle reflecting in the light.

“I’m looking forward to your second set, sir. By the way, what time is the devil supposed to show up at the Burning Oak?”

“What time do you think?”

Dwayne looked at the old man a moment, then smiled. “Midnight, of course.”

“Exactly. Say, I never caught your name, son.”

Dwayne held out his hand. “I’m Dwayne Milton, and I’m the best that’s ever been.”

Sandy grinned and shook his hand. “Are you now? Well, we’ll see about that,” said Sandy as he raised his bottle in a salute and headed back to the stage.

Bill looked incredulous. “You’re thinking of goin’ on a wild goose chase in the middle of the night in hopes of winning a fiddle, ain’t you? Boy, what have you been smoking? The devil don’t show up on rocky mountains in the middle of the night to hand out shiny fiddles to small-town fiddlers making it big.”

Dwayne punched Bill’s arm. “Maybe not, but it’d make a great song, doncha think?”

“You’re crazy.”

“And you still owe me a beer for saying I was bad at math,” broke in Heather. “You couldn’t even tell me what a square root is.”

“It’s part of a funny-shaped tree, of course.” Dwayne grinned as she glared at him, then turned to the bar, glancing at the clock before ordering the next round. He turned back to Heather. “There. You gonna be happy?”

“Well now, that depends,” Heather answered, smiling with a glint in her eye. Dwayne smiled back with a glint of his own.

Over the next hour and a half, beer followed beer, dance followed dance, and Dwayne’s eyes followed the flash of the fiddle over Heather’s shoulder. Laughing at something she said, he staggered to the bathroom, where he could still hear the fiddle clearly through the walls. He came out of the bathroom and stood listening to the tune flow so easily from the fiddle. The familiar sounds of friends and neighbors receded before the music. He glanced for a moment at Heather, her back to him as she talked with Bill, looked again at the fiddle, then turned his back on them and left.

His dusty, laundry-strewn house was just a few doors down from the bar. He picked up his fiddle, thought of leaving a note, then laughed aloud. “Why the hell should I leave a note when I’ll be back with a new fiddle before they know I’m gone?” _Assuming I meet with anyone at all_ , the back of his head added.

He made it to Cloven Gap safely, despite the fence that sprang out at his truck, causing him to swerve out of its way. The road eventually petered out in a mixture of gravel and broken blacktop that served as parking for hikers. As he got out of the truck, his phone rang.

“Dwayne, where the hell have you got to?” Heather’s voice was annoyed, but Dwayne could hear the fiddle in the background. 

“Not in hell, darlin’. Just goin’ to meet the devil.”

“What?”

Dwayne grinned. “I’m just about to head up Horn Peak. Gonna wait by the tree and see if anything shows up. If it does, I’m going to play its little cloven hooves right off, and I’m gonna get me a fiddle as pretty as Sandy Black’s.”

“Dwayne Milton, you are plain crazy, you know that?”

“Just because I’m crazy don’t mean I’m not the best that’s ever been.” The line went dead. Dwayne looked at his cell phone and swore at spotty cell coverage, then started up the mountain.

* * *

Back at the Burning Oak Tavern, Heather glared at her phone.

“What did he say?” Bill asked.

“He says he’s an arrogant prick gone to show the world what hot shit he is. If he wasn’t so pretty, I’d’ve dumped him for good years ago.”

“I thought you _did_ dump him for good, years ago. And months ago. And again weeks ago. Isn’t that how it works with you two?”

“Yeah, but I keep forgetting why I dumped him. Best that’s ever been, my ass. I’ll show him the best that’s ever been when he gets back.”

Bill snorted, not envying his friend, and settled back to drink another beer, content to hear the scratching of the old man’s fiddle in the background.

* * *

Dwayne stumbled up the mountain, getting caught in every bush and tripping in every hole. He was well and truly sober now; sober enough to know that he had made an ass of himself, and that if he went back without having waited for midnight by the tree, he’d never hear the end of it. Growling at the bushes, yelling at the holes, and generally giving way to rage, he ripped away any bits of brush that caught at him or tangled his fiddle case.

At one point he stopped to catch his breath and check his phone--11:35, and still no reception. Damn, but life on the road was hard on a body. Too many hours sitting on his ass while driving from place to place, too many hours drinking beer and eating fatty food, and too many hours in bed--and far too little of that time spent sleeping. Though Dwayne reckoned that was at least exercise of a sort....

He made it to the top, muddied and dew-soaked, sweat-soaked, and with ten minutes to spare. Stumbling across the clearing to the giant, old tree, he pulled his trademark red bandana from his pocket to wipe off the sweat, then stuffed it into his back pocket so that it hung out in a strategically rumpled sort of way. That done, he turned his attention to his fiddle, his hands caressing the case. He drew her forth and tuned her with a sure hand, the simple process calming him.

_Dang, I gotta exercise more, if just walking a mile uphill sets me shaking._

He took off his Stetson and hung it on a broken branch of the Burning Oak, then started to play a gentle tune to warm up. His hair hung in his eyes as he caressed the notes of the tune, one of his favorites. He knew he was an idiot--the old man had a great story and a great hook, but Dwayne figured he might as well have a story of his own: that he had played at the appointed time and place, and the devil had been too scared to show. The notes he played warmed the air around him and rang out into the night as the minutes ticked closer to midnight.

* * *

Mr. Alexander Black, Esquire, as he enjoyed styling himself, stood up and put on his hat, thanking his audience. The bar was still quite full for that time of night in a small town. Though no one felt captivated, folks whose ritual it was to have a drink then leave at ten had stayed as if by mutual accord.

Jake made his way over. “Thanks for playing, Mr. Black. Here’s your money.” 

Sandy shook the offered right hand but waved off the money in the left. “No, thank you, son. I do believe I’ve got all the payment I need. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date to keep.” The old man stepped off the stage, bare fiddle and bow in his hand, and walked out the door. Jake, taken aback, watched the old man walk out--downright spry, he was--then started out the door after him.

“Are you sure –” he started, then stopped at the edge of the empty parking lot. He listened for a moment: no footsteps, no car. Jake turned and went back in.

“Yo, Jake, you look a little spooked. What did the old guy say to you?” asked Bill.

“Wasn’t so much what he said to me as what he did.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, first he refused payment--did you ever know a fiddler who wasn’t broke?--then he just vanished.”

“Vanished?” asked Bill. Heather, next to him, frowned and looked at her watch. One minute to midnight. She interrupted Jake before he could answer.

“Bill, you ever see that tree that Dwayne and the old guy were talking about?”

“Yeah, I think so. We used to go out there to smoke. Why?”

“Because you’re gonna take me there. Now.”

* * *

Dwayne opened his eyes to firelight. The tree was burning--really and truly burning--but he noticed, with a wrench, that the leaves weren’t curling up, and he couldn’t feel the heat of it. His hat, hanging on the tree, was untouched as well. There was a rustle, and Sandy Black stepped into the clearing surrounding the Burning Oak.

“I heard you playing. Not too shabby, that. So, you think you’re good enough to beat the devil himself.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Dwayne straightened his back, wondering at the old man’s game. Trying to scare him? Absolutely certain now that his hometown reputation depended on it, he replied, “I imagine.”

“The terms are these: you play, then the devil plays. If your playing is better, the fiddle rejects the devil and makes him release it. If his is better, the fiddle will suck your soul into itself, and you will be no more.”

“And who decides the better player?”

“The fiddle itself. The souls of many fiddlers give it its voice; it should know.”

Dwayne snorted, pushing off his uneasiness. “And you’ll be playing for the devil, I suppose?”

“I reckon you could say that,” the old man replied, a glint of the firelight reflecting in his eyes. The fiddle, too, gleamed along its body with glints of reds, yellows, oranges, blues, greens.

Dwayne smiled then, knowing the old man’s game. One last hurrah for his fiddling, pass the instrument on to someone worthy of it. The rest? Just made for a good story. Dwayne would have to ask him later how he’d managed the tree.

“Done, then,” Dwayne said firmly.

“Done,” Sandy Black agreed.

The old man spit on the ground and gestured for Dwayne to proceed. Dwayne shook his hair back over his eyes and struck a pose before he began to play. He started with a slow air, and the notes could have made you weep, or offer your shirt to a naked man. Enough women had offered theirs, anyway. 

At the end of the second time through, he drew out the last note for a count of four, then launched into a reel he’d written himself. It was a new tune in this latest incarnation, but it had its roots in the very first tune he’d ever made up on fiddle. It sometimes felt like he’d spent years trying to perfect the melody. He tossed in ornamentation, but not too much, and through it all maintained the kind of driving, steady beat that makes the heart go wild. The temperature was rising, and Dwayne thought with a mental laugh that he really was setting the world on fire with his playing. He threw himself into the music entirely, glorying in the freedom of the sound, the fleetness of his fingers. He knew with certainty that he was playing better than he ever had in his life, until--his fiddle failed him. First it was the E string that went sharp, then the A string--though not at the same rate as the E. The D got a bit wonky, leaving the G relatively flat.

Still Dwayne kept playing, sweating as he compensated for the changing pitches of the strings as best he could. The heat of the Burning Oak became much more noticeable. Dwayne’s bow came to a stuttering halt as the varnish began to bubble and the bow hair began to brown. He threw the fiddle away from him as the strings and the varnish made his hands blister. The seams of the fiddle came unglued before it hit the ground.

He looked at the old man in desperation, but saw no man at all. The hat was gone, the flannel shirt, the blue jeans and the boots. In their place was a shadow standing between Dwayne and the light, defying the heat of the blazing tree that never burned, holding a fiddle with highlights the colors of fire. _The devil wears many forms_ , the old man had said.

“Did you think I would play fair?”

“But the songs said….”

“When you hear a song or story, you might want to ask who’s telling it, and why.”

Dwayne stared in horror as the shadow raised its bow and began to play Dwayne’s own tune, the way it always should have been.

* * *

Heather pointed up the hillside. “There he is. What the hell is he doing, standing next to a burning tree? We’re about to have a forest fire, and he’s just standing there, fiddling like what’s-his-name--that Roman guy. I’m gonna kill him. Come on!” 

“Calm down, there’s a fair-sized clearing around the tree; shouldn’t spread,” Bill called as he slammed the creaky truck door.

Heather ran up the hill, Bill following easily after. They reached the top, breathing hard, just as the tune finished. Nothing like the mile the old man had said. Dwayne grinned hugely at them as they ran into the clearing. He looked as pleased as punch, and not apparently concerned at his nearness to a burning tree.

“Well, hello there, ain’t it good to see a friendly face when I’ve got some celebrating to do.”

“Celebrate what? Starting a forest fi….oh,” Heather breathed, as she caught sight of the fiddle. Even she could tell the difference between this fiddle and his old one. She noticed the old one lying twisted and broken on the ground about ten feet in front of Dwayne.

“Damn if the old man weren’t the devil himself. I met my man tonight and I beat him, ‘cause I’m the best that’s ever been.” Dwayne’s eyes glinted in the firelight.

Heather hugged him while Bill shuffled a bit. Dwayne laughed at his friend’s discomfort, gave Heather a squeeze with the arm that held the fiddle and bow and reached for his hat with the other.

“C’mon, honey,” he said as he settled the hat on his head in that just-right manner. “Let’s head back to town, and tomorrow I’ll have a new song to sing for everyone.”

* * *

The next night the whole town, it seemed, was packed into the little bar. Young folk, old folk--even some kids come out with their parents. As Dwayne wended his way to the stage, he could hear the whispered conversations.

“I bet he arranged the whole thing as a stunt. The old man disappearing so quick--phooey. He was just hiding around the corner. I heard Heather never even saw no one else on the hill.”

“Then how’d he get the old man’s fiddle?”

“It’s not the same fiddle, silly, it just looks a lot alike. Shame about him setting that tree on fire, though the glow sure did look pretty in the distance.” 

“I went up this afternoon. It looks pretty bad, but it’ll survive. It’s a sturdy old thing.”

Dwayne got on the stage and looked at the audience with a grin that was going to be famous someday, and winked at one young boy who watched the fiddle’s gleam with fascination Dwayne knew well. That boy’s son, like his father, would learn the fiddle, inspired by the song Dwayne was about to sing. In forty-nine years, that son would seek the Burning Oak, knowing he could win. All the songs and stories said so. 

_I’m all about the propaganda, after all._


End file.
